After Death (Johnlock)
by WhoLocked93
Summary: Sherlock never faked his death, he died when he committed suicide off of Bart's roof and it's destroying John. He can't live without his consulting detective any longer. So what is a distraught man to do?
1. Chapter 1: John

Pain. Overwhelming consuming pain. It fills John. He can't bear it. It presses down on him like a weight. It's killing him. He can't breathe. He needs it to stop. He needs the pain to go away. He just wants it to leave him.

John stumbles to his chair half empty whiskey bottle in hand as these thoughts and emotion cloud his head. Tears run rapidly down his face. He unsteadily sets down his bottle of whiskey, spilling some. Everything tilts and turns with the slightest of movement.

He doesn't know what to do anymore. Life without Sherlock is destroying him. He never realised how dependent he was on Sherlock. How much his death has affected him. He feels like everything he has ever had and built has been ripped away, leaving him raw and open. His limp had come back worse than it has ever been, he's barely able to walk even with his cane.

He sits in his chair placing his head in his hands, he wants to scream.

"Why does Sherlock cause me so much pain? Why can't I just move on? Everyone dies. Everyone dies. EVERYONE DIES!" He shouts, picking up the whiskey bottle and throwing it against the wall. It shatters loudly and falls to the ground. The smell of whiskey permeating the air. "I can't do this. Damn it. I can't do this anymore..." John sobs. "I give up."

Mrs. Hudson was away from Baker St. for a few days, leaving John by himself. She had to attend to her family as her sister had fallen seriously ill. She convinced herself that he would be okay for a couple of days. She worries about him. She knows he has been drinking heavily. She tried to talk to him, but he shuts her out, demanding that she leave his flat. She feels so useless. She can't console him or be the voice of reason. So, she leaves when he asks, crying when she shuts the door. She can hear John upstairs. Every time he cries or moans Sherlock's name in his sleep, she can hear it and she doesn't know what to do or how to help him. So, she just cries.

John's by himself, alone. Always alone now. Mrs. Hudson tried to help him, but he always pushes her away and he doesn't know why. He knows that she cannot help him. He is lost now. Nothing can ever help him. It's be best for him to just leave.

With that final thought, John picks up his hand gun from the coffee table and brushes the barrel against his temple, closing his eyes. He sits there for a while, feeling the shape of the gun in his hand and the barrel against his head. John opens his eyes and grabs the notepad and pen that sat next to his gun on the coffee table and begins to write.

"I'm sorry. To everyone. I can't live like this anymore. I've tried. God knows I've tried so hard. But I can't live without him. I can't live without Sherlock. He's not coming back to me. So, I'm going to him. This is my note and I'm so sorry for leaving like this. Tell Harry I love her and that everything that I have is hers now. Mrs. Hudson - There is rent money in an envelope in my nightstand. It'll cover the rent for a year. I know you will have a hard time renting after this. You have been great, so great to me and to Sherlock. Thank you and I'm sorry for the mess."

John lets the pen fall to the ground, not carrying where it goes. He won't need it anymore. He cocks the gun, the sound echoing through the quiet room and places the gun in its final spot on his left temple. He has never felt so sure about what he was about to do right now. He's ready to take his own life to be with Sherlock. It's what he wants. It's what he needs. He closes his eyes, the tears stopping. Peace finally coming over him.

"I'm coming for you, Sherlock. Please be waiting for me." John whispers to himself as he pulls the trigger.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2: Sherlock

Darkness. That's all John can see is black, never ending darkness. An empty abyss. It surrounds him. He can't see. He begins to panic. He can't move, he can only think.

"Oh god, where am I?! Sherlock! SHERLOCK! Where are you?! I can't see you! I can't see anything! Where am I?!"

"Open your eyes." A soft voice says, not coming from anywhere, but everywhere. The voice breaks John from the darkness. Letting go of him. Allowing him to move again. He's bloody terrified now.

John listens to the voice and hesitantly opens his eyes. He's standing in the flat, facing Sherlock's old chair. That's odd. What the hell is going on. He was just sitting in his chair- Reality hurtles back to John as he remembers what he was doing just moments prior. He turns slowly, not sure about what he is going to see. He braces himself.

Sitting in his chair before him is himself. John knows it's himself, but the John he sees is obviously dead with a gunshot wound to his temple. His body is hunched over haphazardly to the side, blood pooling steadily from his head. His hand lays open with the gun still in it. Blood, bone, and brain matter decorate the fireplace gruesomely.

John squats down in front of himself hardly believing what he is seeing. This is the most unbelievably terrifying thing he has ever seen. He doesn't even know what to think about seeing himself dead. It doesn't even feel real. It feels like a dream. A horribly, real feeling dream...

John is definitely surprised that he actually did it though. He almost expected himself to stop before he pulled the trigger. But no, he actually did it. He _killed_ himself.

John looks closer at himself, finally seeing what he really looks like. What other people see. He looks horrible. His eyes are closed tight with the salty, wetness of tears still showing on his face. His face is wrinkled, aging him drastically even though he is still so young. He looks sad, even in death. John reaches out to touch his own hand, but stops when he hears a familiar voice.

"John." The voice chokes out.

He looks up to see Sherlock standing in the threshold of the door that enters into their flat. John's heart lifts at the sight of him. He can hardly believe that he's there. Beautiful, wonderful Sherlock stands a mere 3 meters away from him. John has never felt so happy. He thought he would never see him again.

"Sherlock." John whispers, standing up to run over to Sherlock at full force with a huge grin and happy tears streaming down his face.

"What have you done?"

John stops dead in his tracks. He's so close to Sherlock now, he can reach out and touch him, but he doesn't. Sherlock looks defeated and utterly devastated. He looks between John and his dead body.

Sherlock cries openly and completely silent. Tears fall rapidly down his magnificent, pale face. His cheeks and nose red. John feels his heart crumble. Ripping apart into millions of pieces till there is nothing left. He feels such overwhelming regret. What has he done. Oh, god. What has he done!

"Sherlock." John chokes. "I... I wanted to be with you... I missed you so much... I couldn't bear it any longer..." He says as he collapses into a heap on the ground. He feels like he's going to pass out. He finally gets to see Sherlock again. To be with him and Sherlock is... rejecting him.

"I should have been here. I could have stopped you. You weren't supposed to do this, John! I killed myself to protect you! To keep you _alive_. Now you... you... Jesus. John. _Why_? Why did you do this?!" He shouts.

John cringes at the force of Sherlock's shout, it slices through him like a knife. He feels like dying all over again. He feels stupid and childish. John sobs in a pathetic heap on the ground, not caring what he looks like. He's completely destroyed and pleads for Sherlock's forgiveness. Begging for understanding.

"I couldn't live without you, Sherlock. I couldn't. I love you. Living without you. It... it destroyed me. I couldn't do it anymore."

"John." Sherlock says simply. He's unable to remain angry at him. He knew it would have come to this eventually and if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't have lasted as long as John did.

Sherlock's still crying as he walks over to John. He closes the small distance between them and kneels down in front of John. John wouldn't look up, he remained staring at the floor, crying. Sherlock places his fingers gently underneath John's chin and pulls his face up. John resists for a moment before allowing Sherlock to drag his gaze up to Sherlock's. They stare at each other for only a moment before finally folding into each other's arms. Clinging on to each other tightly.

Sherlock is caught between emotions of happiness and overwhelming sorrow. He finally has his blogger back, but at such a terrible cost. John took his own life just to be with him. He had so much to live for and he threw it all away just for the chance of being reunited with Sherlock again. Oh, John. Sherlock's stupid, beautiful blogger. He risked so much. Sherlock hugs John tighter, rejoicing at the feeling of John's touch against his.

They sit on the floor of their old flat, clinging to each other. Sherlock gaze flicks up to the fireplace, seeing the bloody, gory mess that decorates it for the first time. His heart pangs against his chest painfully. Tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Did it hurt?" He says quietly as he stares at the fireplace.

"No. I didn't feel anything. Just blackness. I thought that it would be all I'd ever see. I thought that I'd spend the rest of my afterlife searching for you in the dark." John's sobs heavily, shaking them both at the terrifying memory of never seeing Sherlock again. Sherlock mumbles sweet, nonsense in John's ear as he runs his long, elegant fingers through his blond hair, comforting him.

"I'm... sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry." John says, barely coherent.

"Shhhh. It's alright. We're together now. I will never leave you again. We will be by each other's sides forever."

"Really?" John asks, sniffling and looking up at Sherlock with sad, blue eyes.

"Yes, really." Sherlock says, chuckling at how adorably childlike John looks right now. "Come on. Let's go."

"Wait. Where? Where are we going?" John asks tensley, suddenly feeling very afraid.

"Don't worry, my dear Watson. We are just going to take a short walk."

John doesn't move. He's scared. Terrified. He doen't want to move. He doesn't want to lose Sherlock. He's afraid that if he lets him go, he would slip back into the darkness.

"John." Sherlock says softly, affection full in his tone. He grabs John's face with his hands and presses his forehead against his. " I'm not going to leave you. Ever. I won't... I can't do that to you again."

Sherlock moves his face slightly, pressing a soft, delicate kiss to John's lips. "I love you, John." He says softly against his lips.

"I know." John says simply against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock pulls away against his own will and grasps John's hand. "Let's go to the cemetery."

"Why are we going there?"

"I want to show you something."

"Right. Okay." John says thoroughly confused and a slightly nervous. He trusts Sherlock however, so he stands with him and let's Sherlock lead the way to the cemetery.

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3: Cemetery

John and Sherlock walked hand in hand together down London's streets. It was a little after midnight and the streets are vacant, except for a few people. John takes in his surroundings. Nothing has changed since he died. He really didn't know what to expect he would see after his death. He just wasn't expecting everything to remain completely the same.

They walked quietly together, enjoying each other's company after so many months apart. They passed a few people on the streets; no one looks at them, no one sees them. They are completely invisible to the living world. This makes John feel safe and oddly invinsible.

John notices that the wind is blowing hard and people huddle inside their thick coats trying to avoid the wind. He can feel the wind brushing against him, moving his hair and clothes around erratically, but he doesn't feel the chill that would normally accompany it.

He can also feel Sherlock. He can feel his hand grasping his as the soft pads of Sherlock's thumb rub gently against the top of his hand. but not his warmth that use to radiate off of him. John can only feel the touch of his skin against John's. At least John has that. He will miss his warmth, but he can at least feel his touch.

John begins to wonder what would happen if he tried to touch a living human. He is aware that no one can see them now, but he has an overwhelming urge to tap one of the passerby's on the shoulder... He wonders what would happen...

"I wouldn't." Sherlock says, interrupting John's train of thought.

"What? How did you... Never mind... Why not?"

"How did I know? Simple. I thought the same thing after my death. I opened my eyes to see you fighting against the people, trying to get to me. I wanted to comfort you, so I touched your arm. You felt it, but you were too upset to realise." Sherlock says, with a sad, distant look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry you had to see me that way. It must have been horrible."

"I never left you after that. I stayed by your side, until, well you know..."

"You stayed with me until the day I took my own life." John says, blankly. No point in dodging the facts.

"Yes. I only left you once... For an experiment..." He says sheepishly.

"An experiment? Really, Sherlock?" John says, with mock anger.

Sherlock is ready to apologise when he realises John is not really angry. He squeezes John's hand as a silent thank you.

"When I touched you, you reacted ever so slightly. I was calm and sad. So, when I touched you, you became calm, but even more sad."

John nods, digesting the information. He remembers feeling a sense of calm come over his as he let go of Sherlock's hand, but he also felt his world fall apart simultaneously on the inside. Sorrow building up in his heart in ten folds.

"When you reacted to my touch, it surprised me. I wondered if it was just because of the close connection we had with each other, even after my death. Every time you became inconsolable, I would make myself feel calm and disconnect myself from the emotions I felt while watching you fall apart. Once I was calm enough, I would grasp your hand and you would stop crying."

"Thank you." John says, softly. He remembers every time he felt a sense of calm come over him and to know that Sherlock was there to give him that sense of peace made him feel such love for the man that held his hand as they walked to the cemetery.

"Don't." Sherlock says, sadly. John looks up at him puzzled, nodding for him to go on. "Like I said earlier, I believed it was because of our strong connection, but I wanted to test this theory. So, I went out and experimented by letting all my raw emotions come forth and I would place my hand on people. Whatever emotion I felt came through to the person my hand was upon. If I was angry, they would become angry. If I was sad, they would become sad, and so forth."

"That's amazing. So, we have the power to-" John says, stopping mid sentence when he sees that Sherlock has begun to cry. John is not stupid, he knew why he was crying and asked the question he already knew the answer to. "When did you leave me to do your experiment?"

"I'm so sorry, John. I shouldn't have ever left you. I should have been there for you. I could have stopped you from..." Sherlock says, unable to finish.

"That's what you meant when you said 'I should have been here. I could have stopped you.' after I shot myself." John says, sadly. He feels Sherlock's pain. If he were in his place, he would blame himself, too. "Sherlock. Don't blame yourself for my death. You couldn't be with my all the time. I would have died at my own hands eventually. It was inevitable. You couldn't stop me forever." He says placing his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I could have stopped it long enough for you to come to terms with my death." Sherlock says, barely above a whisper tears streaming down his face. John stops walking. Sherlock stops too and turns to face him. John moves closer, molding himself into Sherlock's form, fitting perfectly like he was meant to be there and placing his head on the taller man's chest.

"Sherlock. I love you more than you can understand. I have never been so happy knowing that I have you forever now." He says, lifting his head to place a soft kiss to Sherlock's cupid bow lips.

"I love you, too. More than I can express."

They continue to walk hand in hand in silence. John leaning against Sherlock with his head on his shoulder and Sherlock's head resting on John's.

They reach the cemetery shortly thereafter. They walk through the graveyard when John notices people staring at them. This sends a shiver up John's spine.

"Sherlock. People are looking at us. Can they _see_ us?"

"Yes, they can. They are also dead. We can see and talk to each other, if we want to, but we all usually keep to ourselves. Some find loved ones they have lost in the past and reunite, but mostly they keep to themselves. It really is not very different from being alive."

"Huh." John says, simply not really sure on what to say. They continue walking in silence. John realises soon that they are making there way to Sherlock's grave. He thinks that he should feel sad coming back here like his former self would have felt when he visited. But he doesn't, he feels content and happy.

As they reach his grave, John notices stuff around it. Particularly Sherlock's violin. Exactly like the one sitting in their flat at Baker St. God, John has missed the sound of Sherlock playing his violin. Seemingly reading John's mind, Sherlock abruptly lets go of John's hand. John begins to protest, but stops as he realises that Sherlock is going to his violin.

Sherlock picks up the violin and leans on his headstone, placing it delicately under his chin and brings the bow up and starts to play. John leans against the headstone opposite of Sherlock's and closes his eyes, letting the music course through him. He can sit there for all eternity listening to Sherlock play. John smiles to himself as he realises he can. He and Sherlock have the rest of there afterlives together. No one to come between them. Ever. John looks forward to his life after death with Sherlock.

"Did you miss me?"

Fin.


End file.
